Penny

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

The accommodations in the Grafs manor were a considerable step up from the taverns and dives they usually slept in. It wasn't all good news however. The winter winds were howling outside and with windows shattered and doors broken from their hinges the icy wind was difficult to escape. Cydric and Camilla solved the problem by commandeering a downstairs parlor and rigging a series of quilted blankets to the door to keep out the cold. Snow had begun to fall and was growing in intensity, blanketing the afternoon in leaden gray. Camilla wondered if any of the bandits they had run off into the woods earlier in the day would survive. Maybe, the Drakwald was filled with caves and overhangs that might shelter a man in a blizzard, though that depended on it being unoccupied by something that would kill faster than the cold would.

"Luckily," Cydric said as he stepped through the quilts carrying an arm load of branches, "whatever these things were they left plenty of firewood." There was already a merry fire blazing in the stone hearth on the far side of the room, but it was likely to be a long night. Gunir didn't seem to think there was any chance of the tree things reanimating, but the dwarves had cut up the remains that hadn't already been shattered by axe blows or sword strokes. The garrison had been called out and was on the walls in full strength, a miserable business on a night like this, but nothing anyone was shirking after the events of the day.

Camilla poured two glasses of the Grafs excellent brandy and took one over to Cydric as he deposited the timber with a clatter. She doubted the Grafin intended for them to have the fine spirits, but there was enough confusion that nobody had noticed or cared that Camilla had acquired several bottles during the ongoing clean up.

"What do you think they came for?" she asked.

Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

It was a wonder that the entire city of Nuln didn't lose their hearing in the course of Black Powder week. Emmaline stood across from the gates of the gunnery school, sipping tea from a beer stein. A surprising number of stall sold such things, apparently as a local cure for hangovers. Having eaten a full breakfast at the Golden Comet and enduring the very skeptical looks of the staff, Emmaline was tired but not hung over. Not that she was complaining. She had dressed in her Justicar outfit though she didn't expect to need it. The remainder of the con was up to Neil.

"Break a leg," she whispered as she gave him a gentle push towards the gunnery school.

"It isn't every day someone comes back from the dead."

The Knight's Song

Juliette swung down out of the saddle and wiped her hands on her trousers. It occured to her that everything she owned in the world had been at the inn she had slept at... last night? She tried not to think about how long she had been in the cursed orchestra and how much time might have passed in the real world. Whatever she owned would have long since been taken by the innkeeper, who probably assumed she had been mugged or otherwise met an unsavory end. She hefted the lute she had taken from the Court of Mist-Shrouded Tindar in one hand. It was evidently ancient, the dark timber having drunk the polish of generations, its gold inlay worn smooth against the fingertips of countless players. Well she supposed she could make do.

"I never refuse free drinks from knights who rescue me from cursed castles out of ledgend," Juliette deadpanned as she followed Torm into the tavern. It was only early afternoon but the place was already doing considerable business. A fat tapster with a lazy eye was bustling behind a bar of battered would, pulling pints of foamy ale into wooden tankards, making coins vanish in exchange for booze. Three adobe ovens squatted against a far wall, wafting the smell of course brown bread out to cover the familiar combination of sour ale, human sweat, and pipesmoke that clung to every tavern Juliette had ever visited, except for those in Tirabai, where the local duke had outlawed pipeweed on pain of an amputated nose. There were perhaps a score of people in the place, the usual oldsters who spend their days swapping stories and quaffing ale, a soot stained blacksmith taking an afternoon break from his labors, and a trio of farmers who were busily discussing what was either a live stock deal or a marriage, it was difficult to determine which without context. All of them wore homespun smocks and most of the coins Juliette saw were coppers. Simple people enjoying what little they had.

All eyes turned to them as they entered and conversation died down before rising up in a series of mutters that speculated on who the newcomers were. It was doubtful that a place like this got many knights, and probably not too many more bards. If she had coin in her pocket and a horse beneath her Juliette doubted she would have been tempted to stop. Roadside taverns were a place where a song and a tale might get you free lodging, but might also get you fleas, lice, or your throat cut if the locals were of a particularly rough sort. Fortunately these didn't and Juliette didn't have a horse or coin to seek better lodgings.

"Gods help us," she murmured in a voice so low that only Torm could catch it.

The Sunday Group - The Flicker Cases

I will be finalizing the choice of characters on Friday!

Penny's Pencils

Penny's Pencils

The Sunday Group - The Flicker Cases

@Jarl Coolgruuf Follow your heart!

The Sunday Group - The Flicker Cases

@Jarl Coolgruuf

I smell cam pants and cordite...

Penny's Pencils

The Sunday Group - The Flicker Cases

@HoloJem Yes, I am accepting all applications